All The Best Intentions
by Scarlet Lady
Summary: Harry had all the best intentions, but that's usually what gets you killed. mild slash. Final chapter loaded!
1. Harry goes bad?

Oh hell, Sev. I've gone and done it this time. Please don't kill me when I turn up dead.  
  
Funny that that should be the first thought that came to mind after painfully waking up. Dead really hadn't been in his plans at this point. Hm.....200 something bones, in the human body. On the bright side, there's gotta be at least half still intact. And I think the skin behind my left ear isn't even scratched.  
  
Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived, was about to finally unearn that name if he wasn't very, very careful. The crowd of death eaters surrounding him was obviously rooting for careless. Harry winced as he mentally tacked on a cheerleader skirt and some pompoms to the more enthusiastic of the bunch. That picture was just wrong.  
  
All levity aside, he was seriously scared. While a student at Hogwarts, there had been the security of knowing that no matter what trouble Voldie and Co. caused, every staff member there unflinchingly stood beside him. Most actively tried to get in front of him. Some had moved faster than others, and paid dearly for their courage. No, he couldn't think about that now. Maybe not ever. You never know when too much will become Too Much.  
  
The teachers were a safety net he'd left behind years ago. Now at almost 30, he'd been on his own since graduation. Not that he'd wanted to be, but the Big V just wouldn't quit coming. Each year had brought stronger and more damaging attacks. When Hermione had been left in a wheelchair their senior year after one such, Harry realized the price his friends would continually and uncomplainingly pay should things remain status quo.  
  
So, as a graduation present to himself, he'd contrived things so that he had the distinction of being the most hated former student that Hogwarts had ever seen. Should have done it before that, stupid git. Would have, too, if I could have figured out how to do it up right. Harry knew that his friends would always be a viable target, so he carefully locked his emotions down, and amputated the friendships. Publicly, loudly, and eternally.  
  
There's no way that Hermione and Ron would have let him simply walk away. Sappy as it was to admit, they'd been each others surrogate family, and although Harry didn't have much experience in that arena, he knew they wouldn't have given up without some pretty extreme provocation.  
  
Harry had provided it, and then some. For good measure, he'd then gone out and provided some more. Afterwards, he'd locked himself in a room, screamed at the walls, pretty much destroyed the furniture, and cried himself to sleep for a few days. What he'd done to the two of them, although necessary, haunted him. The hatred of the rest of the wizarding world for what he'd done wasn't any picnic either. There was no way for the world to know he'd done it to save them, that hurting them had been necessary. But for all Ron and Hermione, as well as the rest of the school knew, Harry had been simply cruel.  
  
A week prior to graduation, he'd watched Hermione in the hospital wing with Madame Pomfrey when she was told she wouldn't walk again. Wizard medicine still had limitations, and a severed spinal cord was beyond aid.  
  
Ron and Hermione had just looked at each other, and seeing Ron with tears on his face, Harry had never been more aware that it was his fault. Cedric the fourth year, Sirius the fifth, Professor McGonnagal the sixth , Remus, Colin, Draco, and nearly Hermione the seventh. And that didn't count all the others whose names he didn't know. Harry had been teetering for years on the edge of active trauma due to the constant stress. Although the typical symptoms were suppressed, it certainly gave him a start on the road to his current isolated life.  
  
Leaving Hermione trying to comfort Ron, backwards as that had seemed, he'd left the infirmary and gone straight to the owlery. Hedwig had died the year before, and he hadn't had the heart to replace her. He'd still felt guilty for using the school owls, as if the ghost of Hedwig was going to rise up and bite his finger, but he'd gone ahead and sent two messages that day. One to Arthur Weasley, and one to Alastor Moody.  
  
He'd requested a meeting with Ron's dad and Mad-Eye Moody, in which he outlined his tentative plans and ideas. There was no way he could proceed without some inside contacts, and more training than he currently had. He needed someone in the know to who could keep the Dementors off his back, and there was no way he'd trust that insufferable idiot, Fudge. It also meant that he had to tell Mr. Weasley about what he intended for Ron and Hermione. He felt like seven kinds of slime and a rare fungus when he spelled out how he intended to completely humiliate a very proud boy, and why. Mr. Weasley looked at him, and Harry could see a father's reaction warring with harsh realities. Reality won, but Harry knew Mr. Weasley was going to have a very hard time forgiving him.  
  
He'd known his proposed scheme would sound fantastic and preposterous coming from someone who'd only lately turned seventeen, but he'd had the notoriety of being the boy who had managed to live through several years of attacks, and had come close to killing Voldemort off twice. That was enough for Arthur and Alastor to at least take a chance on him.  
  
From Mad-Eye, he'd requested a complete immersion course in Auror tricks and tactics. An apprenticeship that normally took five years, Harry wanted in one. Moody actually looked excited at the prospect, and Harry found that more frightening than a group of Dementors looking at him and licking their lips.  
  
His really bad feeling was right on target. Spending a year with Moody was the worst experience Harry had ever had, and to borrow a Dumbldorism, between you and I, that's saying something.  
  
The first few months were undoubtedly the worst. Had Harry not determinedly held fast to a goal that he would not, could not, let go of, the nightmares, the constant unfamiliar demands, and the sheer aloneness he felt would have capsized his resolve. He kept looking around for Ron to share the misery with, or for Hermione to suggest a way to make it easier. And then he'd remember what he'd done to them, and stoically endure the endless days and nights alone. He worked very hard at not feeling sorry for himself. He'd put himself in this position, there was no one else to hold responsible. So if he wasn't happy, Suck it up, Potter, he would remind himself.  
  
Christ Jesus, though, to this day he still felt like Typhoid Mary. The pain, sorrow, and guilt hadn't faded one iota. The deaths, the persistent endangerment of the hundreds of students at Hogwarts, the nearly constant fear he'd felt, what he'd done to his friends. All this and more had conspired to leave Harry with a constant 10 foot empty radius around him, even standing on the most crowded of streets.  
  
Moody had insisted that he read the Daily Prophet every morning before taking him out to the woods, and beating the holy hell out of him in the name of training. "You never know what information will be useful until you find it. Constant vigilance, Harry!" To that end, he was constantly hitting Harry with unexpected curses, setting tripwires in unexpected places, and deliberately playing games with his head. How Harry had emerged sane was still a mystery to him. Of course, there were only three people alive who thought he was, so his questionable sanity was definitely a minority opinion.  
  
Courtesy of the Daily Prophet, Harry stayed well aware of the altered feelings in the wizarding world towards one Mr. Harry Potter. Not a month went by over the course of the last 12 years that he hadn't seen an article that kept the memory of his breach of faith alive and well. To be fair, there was a certain small segment of the population that still refused to believe the savior of the wizarding world had gone bad, but Harry figured they were the same ones that collected plugs. No offense to Arthur. Harry deliberately inciting new rumors, though. After all, the show must go on, and you could never be too sure when keeping undercover.  
  
Harry studied his current predicament, wondering where he'd gone wrong. Well, okay so taking on the head bad guy by himself was certainly one large step in the process. Actually, it pretty much explained the whole thing, when looked at from a certain distance.  
  
Harry squinted out of bloodshot and swollen eyes. Seen this way, fuzzy, wavering, and shifting from two to four as his vision blurred, those two death eaters over there on the end looked like they were engaged in a rather obscene physical improbability. If he weren't pretty sure he'd whimper if he tried to talk, he definitely would have commented on it.  
  
His sole source of amusement over the last few years consisted of having absolutely no reason to put a leash on his remarks. These days, anything that popped into his head was in serious danger of coming out of his mouth. It was deliberate at first, one more way to alienate and provoke people, but after a while, it became really funny to watch all the shocked looks and red faces. Not a particularly desirable personality trait, but hey, he'd take his fun where he could find it. He'd made a game of seeing how many times he could cause clenched teeth in one conversation. He was currently up to 17 during a one hour meeting with Arthur. Harry figured the only reason he hadn't gotten a punch in the snoot over his more annoying comments was that the man still felt somewhat sorry for him. Harry sometimes wondered if his need to poke and prod a reaction out of people was a sign of his growing mental instability, but didn't particularly care one way or the other about the answer.  
  
It didn't seem to be an emotion that the badguy bossman shared. Every time they'd met up over the last decade, Harry'd taken a large amount of glee in throwing insults at the most feared individual most wizards knew. Of course, that also might explain why Crucio was the first curse Voldemort flung at him in their little encounters. Most likely, he didn't want to hear another one of his henchmen sniggering. Harry wasn't entirely sure, but he didn't think the guy with the laughter control problem had been seen since.  
  
At the time, he'd spent an anxious couple of weeks hoping it wasn't Professor Snape. If it had been, Harry had speculated that maybe it was the shock of laughing that had killed him. Harry was quite sure Sev didn't have a sense of humor. Harry's admittedly shaky foundation was predicated on certain things he knew to be true. One – Albus Dumbledore was a scary dude, two - he'd miss Ron and Hermione forever, and three - Severus Snape was a mighty big rock in Harry's lonely ocean. Despite his lying, role- playing and isolation, these three anchors were providing just enough stability for him to hang on to. Long enough, he hoped.  
  
For the last decade or so, Arthur had demanded that Harry meet with Sev at least every couple of months to pass information back and forth. He didn't want Harry messing with Snape's plans, and vice versa. Arthur had slowly moved up the ranks in the ministry over the years, and was in a position to be able to coordinate several pieces in the chess game. It had become apparent from whence Ron had gained his affinity for strategy.  
  
The resulting association between Harry and Snape certainly wasn't normal, but to Harry it became precious and priceless. Harry came to know in intimate detail exactly how loyal and purposeful Sev was, while Severus came to know that Harry was the biggest egomaniacal imbecile he'd ever met. Harry still didn't want anyone other than the original two to see behind his façade, no matter what it caused certain individuals to think about him as a person. After so long playing the game, he feared opening up. The things that might tumble out weren't conducive to making someone like him. And too, he knew he wasn't entirely sane anymore. He lied and manipulated with glee, content to sit back and watch the chaos he caused. He supposed he could have confided in Sev; it was just possible he would have understood how the deception had begun, but if he couldn't tell Ron and Hermione, it just didn't seem right. Nevertheless, it caused some extra baggage in his hurt locker. He'd have to see about getting a bigger storage facility, shortly.  
  
Harry had been single-mindedly pursuing his goals for several years, and come to the conclusion that he was still alive for only two reasons, and he couldn't get to the second without achieving the first. He had to make Voldemort pay, permanently. Anything, anything he had to do to reach that goal, he would do. Not one more person would die because Harry failed to act. Not one more person would be allowed to put themselves between himself and Voldemort. He simply could not lose another person he cared for. No matter that they didn't care for him, that was his choice. His anchors held him steady on his course. They didn't know it, and likely never would, but the justice he demanded was for them.  
  
Harry knew he was a damaged individual in a great many ways. He was driven and angry, isolated and unsociable. His seven years at Hogwarts, where he'd found friends and acceptance, didn't make up for the 23 he'd been without them, and his complete aloneness for the last twelve of them had seen him set him in his ways. He figured that when he finally managed to kill the Great Evil Git that he'd hang around just long enough to accomplish his one other goal, and then vanish for good.  
  
After leaving Moody, Harry had tried to plan out what exactly he wanted to do, and how to get from point A to B. That was mostly the easy part. Harry knew he could kill Voldemort, but he wasn't sure he could do it without fatal injury to himself. If he made it through, back then he'd had vague ideas about revealing the charade, and Ron and Hermione tearfully forgiving him, and they'd all live happily ever after.  
  
As he'd worked through the details of his plans keeping his survival in mind, he realized he was looking at a great many years. After that length of time, time that would harden the hottest anger into the cold steel of hatred; even if he revealed all in a dramatic interview with Witch Weekly, Ron and Hermione wouldn't forgive him, and without that, what was the point of the deception? There was an extremely tiny chance that Ron and Hermione might have forgiven him if he'd been lying on graduation day, but he hadn't. He'd stood there speaking the absolute truth, which made it all the more unforgivable.  
  
After that wonderful and illuminating conclusion, he'd realized there would be no more friends. Ever. So, if he did manage to live, what on earth was he going to do with himself? He'd had a taste of what it could be like - the accolades and the praises that would come his way, but what could he do with that kind of notoriety? His deception ensured he'd still be hated while being smiled at, and while he could handle it now, after the game was done, he knew that would change. Now there was a reason for tolerating the dislike he could feel constantly being directed his way. If the reason went away, a large part of his armor went with it.  
  
Harry figured if there was nothing more he could achieve as himself, Harry Potter, he'd find a way to at least do the things he wanted, before finding a nice isolated cave somewhere. The trouble was, he still couldn't think of anything he wanted to do that he thought could actually happen. He wanted to be normal. Never going to happen. He wanted to belong to someone. As the most hated wizard alive (possibly tied with Voldie, but that was a toss-up), that wasn't going to happen either. What did he want that he could have? He couldn't pretend to be someone else forever, and there was no way to hide the scar from someone who spent extended time with him.  
  
Taking the dichotomy to it's conclusion, the solution seemed to be to be someone else, for a short time, and then he could maybe, well, maybe he could find...a hug. That was his second goal. He'd never had one, and he really wanted to know what it would feel like. He'd missed so much, and this was a supremely selfish thing he wanted for himself that just maybe he could have. So, if he lived through the next couple of hours, he'd give goal two a shot.  
  
Harry had been tormenting Voldemort for years, keeping the Great Pest's attention focused on himself, interrupting whatever plans the V-man had going for others, basically urging and shaping a completely unreasoning viciousness for the person of one Mr. Potter. All to get to this point. Oh yeah, the point where you're beat an interesting mix of red and purple, have no wand, and couldn't see to tell the difference between Voldemort and Professor Trelawney. Good plan, Potter.  
  
Well heck, they hadn't started removing body parts yet. Think positive!, he told himself. And it wasn't like he expected to let himself be caught and not get somewhat banged up in the process. He'd spoken to Sev about a month ago, and warned him to stay away from this particular meeting. He knew the magical backwash he was about to create would discharge itself into anyone connected with Voldemort. The physically closer they were, the worse the effects would be.  
  
Five years ago, he'd done something completely stupid during a hurried, back alley meeting with Sev. He'd just come from another raid on Voldemort's campground, and had a pile of magical items to pass on for Sev to study or destroy.  
  
One item had been a medallion with emeralds embedded on one side, tiger's eye on the other. There were no other markings anywhere on it, but Harry had gotten an extremely peculiar feeling handling it, and could tell it was quite powerful in it's way, although he had no clue what it actually did.  
  
He'd handed over the pieces, pulling the medallion out of his pocket last. Sev had taken one look at it, and hissed at him. "Where the hell did that come from?"  
  
"Well, I needed a new piece to go with the earrings I just bought. Where the hell do you think it came from?"  
  
Sev gifted Harry with the level two You are such a git, Potter stare he'd gotten used to. He saved level three for the times a particularly nasty new rumor surfaced in the Daily Prophet about just what that insanely immoral wizard Harry Potter was up to. Harry'd been planting the rumors for years, and lately had taken to upping the sleaze factor for to see just how dangerous that glare could get. Alright, so the story about the twins in the cloak closet of the Leaky Cauldron might have been over the top. Snarky bastard would probably have a coronary due to shock if he knew the freaking boy who lived is still a virgin.  
  
Sev clenched his teeth. That's one, Harry thought. "Mr. Potter, it might interest you to know that the medallion you're bouncing like a Muggle quarter was given to your mother by your father the day they graduated. Should you, however remote the possibility, have any desire to remember them, I suggest you keep it."  
  
At that, Harry had clamped his fist tightly around the medallion, feeling one of the jewels draw blood from his palm. Remember? How could he ever forget? He knew they would be just as ashamed of him as everyone else, if they were still alive. He knew all the stories of his parents, knew how much in love they were, and keeping this medallion would be a constant reminder that he could never share in that. He dreaded the burden of yet more emotional grief. He walked too close to the edge, and could not afford to go over, not yet.  
  
He'd looked at Severus with what he hoped were expressionless eyes. He'd worked hard on a poker face, and his cut off life helped ensure he kept his feelings to himself. "Graduation, you say? A fine time to express all one's innermost thoughts and feelings, wouldn't you agree, Sev?" Harry had certainly taken the opportunity and run with it.  
  
Severus clenched his teeth. That's two "Potter, there has never, in my not inconsiderable experience, been someone I loathe more deeply than you. While James and Lily were the epitome of all I find irritating, they at least had the normal decent sensibilities of most human beings. You on the other hand, have absolutely no redeeming value I can find. Your one small usefullness lies in keeping Voldemort occupied. When the day comes that that usefullness is at an end, I sincerely hope you cross paths with a fast moving basilisk."  
  
Harry had kept his eyes fixed on Severus's through the tirade. He'd deep down believed since his first day of Potions class that Snape didn't really hate him, and that his constant picking on him wasn't personal. The professor didn't even know him, so while he might hate the ideas he had about him, he couldn't hate him. He'd been rude, irritating and intimidating, but truthfully, Harry had found it kind of intriguing. For seven years, he'd watched the professor, slowly learning that it was simply Severus Snape being......Severus. As a way of communicating, it kind of sucked, but it was just his way. Having understood this, Harry started quietly digging into the life of one Professor Severus Snape. The more he absorbed, the more he liked and respected the man. Sev was his first choice when he needed someone to train him, but the admiration he felt stopped him. He realized he wanted to make friends with the snarly and cranky man, and that was enough reason to avoid him completely.  
  
The meetings forced upon him by Arthur served well to deepen his feelings. He couldn't define what he felt in so many words, but he knew Sev was a powerful danger to his voluntary isolation.  
  
All this and more was why simply cocked an eyebrow at the impassioned lecture, then flipped the medallion to his one liability. "Nah, you keep it, Sev. We'll call it payment – for services rendered."  
  
Harry turned, and walked away. Finally understanding that he was seriously, completely, no holds barred in love with the difficult man. And at last understood that when you're on the receiving end, there really was no difference if someone hated their ideas of you, or just hated you. The knowledge went through him like the sharpest of swords. Funny, he hadn't realized that pain could feel so cold. Harry stuck his hands in his pockets as he strolled away to cover their trembling.  
  
He was pretty sure that most people would find it odd, not wrong, but quite certainly odd, that he'd fallen in love with a man he'd never spoken a civil word to. He'd never been in love before, nor had he ever received any that he remembered. He imagined his parents must have loved him, and certainly Ron and Hermione had felt affection for him, but he didn't know love. How Harry was so certain after being so uncertain of what he felt is one of the things he guessed he'd never know. He thought that all the years he'd been watching and trying to understand the man had simply formed the foundation that his respect, admiration, and liking had built on. Mix that with Sev's uncanny ability to find the black and white in a dangerously grey world, dangle it in front of a man who had none of those things, and presto, love is born.  
  
Harry knew it was completely one sided, and that Sev would never return his feelings. In a way, that made it much easier to love him. No explanations required, no justifications. Harry took and hoarded the small crumbs he could from their awkward meetings, simply grateful to be allowed to occasionally see him.  
  
Shortly thereafter, he'd become aware of a low-level hum in the back of his head. After several hours of meditation, he satisfied himself that it wasn't harmful, just a general sense of awareness of someone. His first thought was that it was somehow connected to Voldemort, but it didn't feel evil. In fact, it was somewhat ... nice. Further meditation gave him several more impressions of waves of the softest black he could imagine. The color black always made him think of Sev, so this newfound...thing...must have something to do with him.  
  
Harry didn't know with any conviction how this had happened, but he certainly had a suspicion. It almost assuredly had been the medallion. So he made a point of hunting down the jeweler who'd created it and gotten the background from him at wandpoint.  
  
Minus all the stammering and pleas for mercy, and "Wouldn't you like a nice cup of tea?"'s, the basic story was that James had commissioned the piece as a surprise for Lily, and had several unusual spells built into it. The stones themselves weren't really jewels, but living crystals, that took on the primary colors of the couple. Green for Lily's eyes, and brown for James'. With a drop of blood on each, the medallion became a conduit between the couple. If one were in danger, the other would know. It was an undetectable way of keeping tabs on each other in those dangerous times.  
  
Harry realized when he cut his palm on one of the jewels and then given it to Sev, it had provided a link between them. However, the link only went one way, as Sev hadn't activated his half. Still, it was comforting to realize that he had, however small, a simple connection to the man he loved. And now he could try to protect Sev from the worst of what his spying exposed him to, as he could follow the link to his location.  
  
Bringing himself back to his current predicament, Harry was again indebted to the medallion, as it assured him that Sev was nowhere near.  
  
Harry had been hoping for a complete gathering of the evil gits for years. He really didn't want to have Voldemort dead, and then have all the death eaters competing to fill the void. He wanted a one shot deal to take them all out, without wreckage raining about the countryside. When he'd heard from Sev about this meeting, and the fact that all death eaters were required to be in attendance, he'd told Sev to have Dumbledore knock him out with a brick if he had to, but under no circumstances was he to attend.  
  
He'd finally seen what a level four glare from Sev looked like. "Potter, has it crossed your tiny little mind that I will be completely exposed as a spy should I not be present?"  
  
"Why no, Sev, it hadn't. Gee, maybe you should go then. I'd hate for you to miss the final blowout where all the death eaters learn how to fall down and play dead. Imagine what a learning experience that would be." Harry counted slowly to five. Thirty times. "Regardless of what you choose to think of me, I don't sit around thinking up ways to get you killed. Quite the opposite. Now please, just let me do my one freaking job without you on scene, all right?" The thought of Sev attending this particular gathering had made Harry sweat fear inspired bullets for days, until he'd been assured by Arthur that Sev had agreed to stay away.  
  
After working with the annoying man for the last several years, albeit under duress, Snape's disgust with the infuriating rodent had reached immense proportions. Be that as it may, the brat had never caused him direct harm. In fact, for the last few years, he'd always seemed to turn up just at the moment things could have blown up in his face.  
  
Lately, both Sev and Harry were routinely using concealing charms when meeting in public, so there was no way for Sev to get a read on Potter's face. The boy had gotten remarkably adept at not giving much away, but now and again the shutters over his eyes would briefly open, allowing him a quick glimpse of the single-minded drive that kept young Potter going after Voldemort, despite the addition of several new scars a year.  
  
Just what does make Harry Potter tick?, he wondered, not for the first time. It certainly isn't because he cares – perhaps it is simply the thrill? There was no way to know, and he certainly was not going to ask. Insufferable, and far too full of his own importance in the world. A face like that would do far better to have a more engaging personality behind it, not the poison and selfishness more common to a reptile.  
  
Severus had always been determined to not like the boy. It had taken seven years for the rest of the world to agree that he was a snobbish, arrogant little prig, who'd had the best in life handed to him on a silver platter, and done not one thing to earn it.  
  
Why, just look how he'd repaid his friends for their concern. Actually standing there at graduation, and announcing that he was so proud of the Weasely boy and Granger girl. After all, it's not every day you get a life funded by the Boy Who Lived. He'd gone on to congratulate himself for all the clever ruses he'd employed to ensure they wouldn't know. Honestly, did Ron really think his dad had won that lottery? And just where did Granger's family get the money for all those foreign trips every summer? He'd concluded his nauseating little speech by proclaiming that despite all the opinions that stated it couldn't be done, he'd successfully managed to buy a set of loyal friends. Having done that, he now felt it time to move on and work his wiles on a larger scale. But he thanked Hogwarts for the opportunity it had provided to practice. 


	2. Harry unmasked!

Harry's scar was beginning to burn, a sure sign that Voldemort was now in the vicinity. He squinted, trying to locate him before it was too late. Harry was sweating profusely, the intense pain and nerves taking a toll. The icy persona must be maintained, he couldn't afford any slips. Should he have made a mistake, the person he cared most for was going to have a very ugly, very painful death.  
  
Almost, almost he retreated from his purpose. His fear for Severus was tangible in the copper taste in his mouth – or was that blood? He probed the link, again seeking reassurance that for this moment, at least, Sev was not in danger.  
  
Suddenly, he felt the equivalent of a jaguar set loose in his mind. Something, no, he realized, someone crashed through his thoughts, as confused and disoriented as he. And there was only one person it could possibly have been.  
  
Merlin dammit, Sev, get the fuck out of my head! Harry was trying to maintain control. He couldn't afford this right now. He felt the brush of black velvet, and the dazed struggle as Sev fought to gain his bearings.  
  
Potter? Sev was frozen at his worktable, the medallion gripped tightly in his hand, a small cut oozing blood onto the once brown jewel, now obsidian black. He'd been studying some of Potter's recovered magical items. Most of the items while fairly uncommon, hadn't been all that difficult to identify. The medallion, however, had been nagging at him for quite some time. He didn't know why, precisely, but he'd taken to wearing it most days. Certainly not out of any morbid desire to remember Lily or James, but because it seemed.....lonely. Severus knew he was guilty of anthropomorphizing a number of his possessions. Living alone would do that to the most didactic of personalities, but so long as no one was aware of it, he didn't particularly care. The medallion, though, there was something, if only he could remember.....when suddenly it pulsed, and he'd reflexively grabbed it. Too tightly, as it turned out. He'd felt the bite of the edge of one of the crystals, and then all manner of strangeness broke loose.  
  
Harry fought to keep his attention centered on Voldemort, who he suspected was that rather large blot of red moving towards him. He scrambled to shut Sev off, hurriedly piling barrier after barrier between his mind and the velvet blackness of his ally. Harry knew what was coming, and had no intention of allowing Voldemort to take Severus down with him.  
  
Severus quickly adjusted, his years of spying paying dividends as he sorted out what had happened in a matter of seconds. As he oriented himself, he felt the connection between them thin down to almost nothing. He knew it was the Potter brat he'd connected to; the flash of emerald and the brush of silk was unmistakable. He had been dazed by the desperation and pain flowing toward him before being abruptly shut off. Swiftly deciding on a course of action, he tried to force the link back open, determined to find out what was going on. He knew Harry had plans during this convocation of Voldemort supporters, and if things were going badly he was one of the few who might be of assistance.  
  
Harry felt the renewed pulsing against the warding. Dammit Sev, no! He grimly abandoned tracking Voldemort to brace against his mental barriers. He could not let Sev in. Not now, when the danger was so great. If Sev was linked to him and Voldemort started torturing him, there was every danger that Severus would be affected. I will never again allow another friend to be hurt because of me! And should he die, there was a good chance that it would endanger Severus's sanity. Please, Sev, please no! His fear, anxiety, and physical pain were sapping his determination, and he could feel the barriers start to give way.  
  
Severus could fee the emotional link slowly, very slowly start spreading to it's previous depth. Forcing the issue had not been easy, but he knew, somehow, that it was absolutely necessary that the link stay open, now that it had been activated. There was something he had to remember about that accursed medallion.  
  
Potter, drop the damn barrier, and tell me what is going on! Severus had the sense of impending doom that always indicated Voldemort was nearby. Imbecile! So sure you're right, and no one else can assist, how typically, arrogantly Potter!  
  
Harry knew he was losing, he simply didn't have the reserves to keep fighting on two fronts. It was either focus on Voldemort, or keep Severus safe. There wasn't any reason at all to debate, he knew he'd never allow Severus so much as a hangnail if he could prevent it.  
  
There was only one thing he could think of to do. Voldermort wouldn't kill him immediately, he wanted his "fun" first. Harry had the power to end this, he just wasn't able to effectively use it without opening Sev up to secondhand danger. So he gathered his remaining strength, and pulled his magic, ripping and tearing at his psyche with abandon, and forcing the magic down the connection to Severus, ramming it home with desperate intensity. And then, he let the madness he'd kept so tightly locked away take him, knowing it would seal his mind from both Severus and Voldemort.  
  
The great, gaping chasms where his magic once lived pulsed slowly, insanity welling thickly forth like blood, creating a river that slowly engulfed him. Occasional fragments of lucid thought that drifted in the current were filled with relief, knowing that the one person he trusted above all others was now in possession of everything he could give him, and that he'd be able to use that gift to put a stop to Voldemort. Occasionally he remembered that he was somewhere he didn't want to be, and that he should probably do something about it, but the thought would drift away, and the nothingness would take it's place.  
  
Sometimes he would become aware of his body, and know that blood wasn't supposed to be seen in large amounts on the outside of it, but the river he floated in would pull at him, and he'd drift further away from reality.  
  
A hard shove once pushed him to the edge of the river, and for a moment he caught the roots of a memory, holding himself in place. "Severus?" he murmured trying to remember why he wasn't supposed to say that name. For the briefest of moments, he though he felt a hand at the back of his neck, pulling him against a scorched and smoky shoulder. "Severus? Is this a hug?" But then the river pulled him back, the memories slipping through his fingers.  
  
He didn't feel the arms clutch tighter for a moment, or see the fierce and unwavering black gaze trying to penetrate his overcast eyes.  
  
How long he drifted aimlessly, he had no way of knowing. Sometimes he'd drift close enough to shore to see a familiar place or person, but an eddy would whisk him around, and the sight would be gone.  
  
His river wasn't peaceful enough for that often. Most times it raged and thundered around him, full of thoughts torn in half, and voices chopped off in the middle. The worst were the pieces of bodies that drifted by, and sometimes a name would drift with them. At those times, Harry nearly let the river take him under for good. He didn't know why he fought to stay afloat, he was tired, and swimming always took so much energy. Once, he thought he'd heard a voice, and swam for shore harder than he'd ever done, feeling somehow he had to reach it, but when he got there, it had faded away. He grasped the memory reeds lining the river, and saw the dungeons of his home, Hogwarts, but then the river turned stormy, and yanked him from his small harbor. "Severus -" he whispered, "- come back." But the river had interceded before he saw the tall form in the corner whip around and stride across the room, robes flaring, as the man searched the eyes once again gone sunless as a wave pulled him under.  
  
And then appeared a rock in the middle of his river. Just a tiny one, barely enough to cause a ripple as the current flowed past it. Rather than the river wearing away at it though, it seemed to grow larger. Sometimes, if the river let him close enough, as Harry drifted past it, he'd reach out and brush a hand over it, and for one small instant, wonder how it felt to hold so still.  
  
And he'd drift, and the rock grew, and the river went on.  
  
Another hard shove – this one pushing him at the rock, slamming him against it, and the river grew angry, pulling and tugging. But the rock held him, and grew larger, and the river couldn't reach him where he clung, not understanding, but finally able to rest.  
  
Time passed, but Harry never gave up holding onto his rock. With the same unreasoning will that he'd fought the river he held fast to the stone. Not knowing why he did so, only that he should.  
  
Sometimes he'd reach out and stroke the precious stone, marveling at how rock could still feel so warm and comfortable. "Soft" he tentatively said aloud. The river had made speaking nigh impossible, threatening to drown him when he tried, or punishing him with storms when he did.  
  
But the rock only held him closer, keeping him safe, and the chill of the river receded further.  
  
And soon other rocks began appearing in the river. None so strong as his own, but they stayed, and grew. Some grew close enough to his own rock that debris would be caught between them; and sometimes he'd look, and see a face he thought he might know. But the faces frightened him, and he'd turn his face back to his rock, and shut his eyes until he didn't remember any more.  
  
He focused all the concentration allowed to him on his rock. He knew how it would change colors in the daytime, looking impossibly dark and black. He knew that when the lights went away, it wore a blanket of snow, though it was never cold. In fact, when the lights were gone, it always seemed warmer, as if his rock pulled him closer still.  
  
The other rocks continued to creep nearer yet, and lately, sometimes he couldn't escape the faces. Some he could simply look at, and feel nothing, but others made him hurt with their noise, and when they got too close, the fear they brought with them would have him trembling.  
  
At those times, he'd curl into the smallest ball possible, his hands shakily holding onto his rock, trying to comfort himself. "Not me, Egypt, my rock, where's Severus, what's a hug...soft!" attempting to bury himself in the stone he clung to. And the stone would gather him up, and make the faces go away, and the other rocks grew smaller for a time.  
  
And then...it ended. His rock flickered, and faded, and the river vanished, and the nothingness around him turned to fog, and burned itself off as the light slowly leached it away.  
  
Harry came back to himself sitting in a room he didn't recognize, in an oversized and overstuffed armchair. He looked around, feeling stiff and full of aches. A fire burned cheerfully in front of him, keeping him warm, and a soft black robe was tucked around his legs like a lap rug. His hands were in his lap, clutching a fold of the robe so hard the knuckles were white.  
  
Harry gazed at his hands with an odd sort of detachment. Slowly letting the robe go, he saw how they trembled, and the little finger on his left hand was missing. Unfamiliar scars ran along his forearms, but the most surreal aspect of it was that the scars were so faded. As if they were old.  
  
Harry didn't know what had happened, but suspected he'd been lost in his madness for a very long time. Mirror, he thought. He slowly got to his feet, shaky and uncertain, and faltered for a time, holding the back of the chair as he fought to stay erect. Letting go of the chair, he staggered toward what was most likely the bathroom.  
  
Fortune favoring him, it was. And he looked at the image looking back at him. "Well, that's not very pretty", he said hoarsely, regarding the three parallel scars that went from his right temple to the left jaw. The streaks of silver that began where the scars started didn't terribly surprise him. The lines around his eyes were deep, as were the brackets from nose to mouth, but he didn't know if they were from stress or age. His teeth were clean, and he showed no sign of a beard, so someone had obviously been taking very good care of him. He didn't have his glasses on, but supposed he hadn't really been in need of them.  
  
Looking further, he saw he was dressed in a simple but warm robe, gathered at the waist with a loose belt. His feet were covered in thick woolen socks and slippers.  
  
He wondered again where he was, and if he was up to dealing with the answers. Leaving the bathroom, he headed back to his chair by the fire. He didn't think he could stand much longer. The trembling of his hands had spread to his muscles, and that chair was looking like an oasis in the desert.  
  
He caught his foot on the edge of a rug, and lurched forward. He threw a quick softening charm, knowing it wouldn't work completely, as he didn't have his wand, but hoping it would keep him from breaking anything important.  
  
But it did work. And felt very odd indeed. His magic hadn't come from inside him, there was no itch at the back of his head as he cast the charm. Instead there was a pulse from his chest, and a stronger softening charm than he would have expected kept him from the hard floor.  
  
Harry lay there for a moment, before wearily collecting himself and attempting to rise.  
  
Before he managed it however, there was a reverberating slam as the door burst open, and what appeared to Harry's sluggish senses as a tornado of deepest black headed straight for him.  
  
"Dear Merlin, he fell." Swiftly and competently, Severus Snape gathered up Harry, holding him cradled in his arms, and, still holding Harry close, sat in the chair, arranging Harry against him so he sat sideways against him. He brushed Harry's hair out of his face, smoothing it down with a gesture that bespoke great familiarity, and pressed his cheek to the top of Harry's head, wrapping his arms around him. As if they sat this way often.  
  
"You know, for a moment, I thought I could feel you. Five years, Harry. Five years it's been since I last felt you. But I know that someday you'll come back to me. You have to, Harry Potter. I have your magic, and if you want it back, you'll have to return to me. For every day of the past five years your magic has kept me warm, and every day I remember that when you gave it to me, you were giving me yourself as well. I didn't know it at the time, of course. I didn't know you. All I understood was that somehow you'd ripped out your magic, and sent it to me. And so I had to find you, not knowing where you were, not knowing how I could. I hope wherever you are, you don't remember that part of the story, my Harry. How I found you weeks later, how hurt you were, how terribly, terribly hurt. But I hope you do know that Voldemort is gone. It's safe to come back, now. With your magic and mine, we made sure he's gone forever.  
  
"I don't know how to reach you, Harry. I don't know what to say. When Albus comes, we talk about you, and how you managed to do the things you did that day. And sometimes we talk about how you seem to be doing better lately. Of course, we've been saying that every Sunday at tea time for the last five years. And sometimes we both know it's not true.  
  
"But it's when Arthur comes that I hope. I hope that someday you can forgive me for being so blind to who you are. And I hope that someday you'll realize that we love you, and never, ever meant to hurt you so, Harry. He told me what happened so many years ago. And I understand, love. I understand how it hurts inside when you have to turn away from those you love most.  
  
"When the medallion established the link between us, I didn't know it could only happen where there was love. You loved me, and all that time, I didn't recognize it. Arthur tries so hard to let you know how sorry he is for what you've had to endure. After he let the reality of your situation be known, and that flock of reporters stormed the gates of Hogwarts, I half expected your friends to beat down the doors to my chambers.  
  
"And I'm sorry they didn't. I'm sorry it took them so many years to forgive, and I'm sorry they frighten you so when they come. But we'll keep trying, my Harry. Because you have to come back. Because you love me. Because I love you, Harry. Because that damn medallion stays warm. Because you call me Rock, and won't ever let go of my robe...that...is...on the floor."  
  
Severus stiffened, a fine tremor running through him. Slowly, muscles still aching, but heart filled with warmth, Harry sat up, holding Severus's arms in place. And the slowly, the bond began pulsing, keeping time with two hearts beating as one.  
  
"Sev'rus....is this a hug?"  
  
the end 


End file.
